Their eyes met, and then their lips met, and then his shirt went fluttering over her head and his arms came about her and hers about him and she almost swooned at the sheer masculinity of him. She could smell his cologne and something else—him. Perhaps it was sweat, but who would have thought that sweat could smell so gloriously enticing?
“You are still half clothed,” she said against his mouth.
“I am,” he agreed.
She slid her hands to his waist and fumbled with the buttons there until she had them all undone.
And then terror, embarrassment, maidenly modesty, sheer uncontainable excitement, some instinct for self-preservation and very survival—something silly anyway—took over and paralyzed her, and she could go no further.
She wormed away from him and lay down on the bed, her head on one of the pillows. She did not draw up the covers even though the air from the window felt suddenly cool. She shivered, though somehow not from cold, and smiled at him—and watched as he pulled off his boots and his stockings, his breeches and his drawers.
And then he was as naked as she and a hot desert blast had replaced the cool breeze coming through the window.
Oh, goodness. Oh, goodness, oh, goodness.
She had seen her brothers when they were boys. They had all gone swimming and diving together, usually in forbidden deep waters, but while she had always kept her shift on, they had never deemed it necessary to keep their drawers on in front of a mere sister.
She had thought she knew what to expect.
But boys grew into men, and sometimes men felt … passionate.
And, oh, goodness.
Had her mind ever described him—even if approvingly—as an ordinary man?
He was all solid malehood, beautifully proportioned, well muscled in the places he ought to be muscled, lean elsewhere, and … well, modesty prevented her from adding anything else to the mental review of his attributes.
His eyes were roaming over her too, she realized.
“I am too tall,” she said.
“I know,” he said, “that at one time you were a beanpole and were described as such.”
“Yes,” she said. “I was the despair of my mother, whose height I overtook when I was twelve. And at that time I had no shape whatsoever, unless an arrow has shape.”
“Angeline,” he said, and there was something about his voice—for one thing, it was deeper than usual, huskier, “you are no longer a beanpole.”
She knew that. But his words implied more. His eyes implied more. His voice did. And suddenly and gloriously she knew that she was beautiful, that she had grown into this tall, dark bloom that was herself, and that she was perfect. Perfectly who she was and who she was meant to be. And perfectly loved by Edward Ailsbury, Earl of Heyward.
She blinked several times and swallowed, and reached up her arms for him.
“It is time for love,” she said, and realized that she had spoken aloud.
“Yes,” he said and came down onto the bed close beside her and raised himself on one elbow to lean over her.
Terror returned for a moment, but it soon vanished. For of course, she had been right a little while ago. Time was infinite. There was no hurry. Loving for now was more important than having loved. His mouth moved over hers and over her, and his hands moved and his fingers and his legs. And she was being loved slowly and tenderly and maddeningly until all terror was forgotten and only the need, the loving, remained.
She knew nothing. And that was an understatement. Her mother had told her nothing and Miss Pratt certainly had not—probably because she knew nothing herself. Cousin Rosalie had told her nothing. Why should she? Angeline had rejected every marriage proposal she had had, and Rosalie certainly could not have foreseen this.
And yet knowledge, experience, really did not matter at all, she discovered during the minutes or hours or infinity that passed after they had lain down together. Her hands, her mouth roamed where they would, instinct and need and his own deep inhalations and muffled exclamations leading her on. Embarrassment and maidenly modesty fled with the terror, and she touched him everywhere, even—eventually—there.
He gasped and she closed her hand about him. He was long and thick and rock hard, and soon he was going to be right inside her—she had not spent her life in and out of farmyards without learning a thing or two. No, not rock hard, for he was warm and pulsing and alive.
“Angeline,” he said, and his hand came between her thighs and parted folds and probed the most private, secret parts of herself. She could both feel and hear wetness but was embarrassed only fleetingly. It felt right and so it must be right. His hand felt almost cool against her heat.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
And one of his arms came about her and under her and turned her fully onto her back, and he came over her and lowered his weight on top of her while his other hand came beneath her too. And he lifted her, tilted her as his knees came between her thighs and pressed them wide apart. She felt him there, felt panic, quelled it, and he was pressing inward with a slow, steady thrust until she felt stretched to the limit and felt a return of the panic. He paused for a moment and then thrust hard and deep.
There was a moment when pain was so sharp it was unbearable, and then, before she could either cry out or squirm away from him, it was gone, leaving behind only an almost pleasurable soreness, and he was deep, deep in her. She belonged to him, he belonged to her. And she ached and ached.
She opened her eyes. He had raised himself on his elbows and was gazing into her eyes.
“I am sorry,” he whispered.
“I am not.” She smiled.
She had never averted her eyes in the farmyard or out in the meadows, even though any modest lady would certainly have looked sharply away and suffered heart palpitations. Even so, she had not really expected what followed. When she had watched, she had seen the action only from the outside, with none of the physical sensations that went with the action. Now she felt it from the inside, and the sensations were so startlingly different from anything in her experience before them that she could only feel them and not even try to convert them into language in her mind.
There was no hurry. There was absolutely no hurry. She did not know how long it lasted in minutes. But it lasted a long, long time while he worked her with steady, deep, hard rhythm, a rhythm accentuated by the wet suction of their coupling, and pleasure hummed through her and only gradually built to something more than pleasure but not quite pain. Even the soreness was not quite painful.
Until it all was. And until his movements told her that he felt it too. His hands went beneath her once more, his full weight came down on her, and the rhythm changed as he worked with greater urgency. And something broke in her just when she felt she could stand it no longer, and at the same moment he held rigid and deep in her and made a sound deep in his throat. And she felt a hot flow inside and he relaxed down onto her and she relaxed beneath him, and for an indeterminate time the world went away and yet floated hazily somewhere above her consciousness. She could hear the curtains fluttering and birds singing.
Even infinity had an end.
They had loved. And somehow having loved was quite as beautiful as loving. For of course there was no real end to it.